Chat History
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Rain drummed endlessly against the window, cold grey skies roiling outside. Another gloomy British day - storms were predicted all week, in fact. It suited Isaiah just fine; it was his favourite sort of weather, after all. Long, slender fingers tapped away at the keyboard of his computer, finishing up the session notes for his latest patient. *Poor Miss Eriksson... will have to up her dosage. She's thinking too much. She needs the numbness; an escape from those delusions of hers.* A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his hand rising to rub at his stubbled chin thoughtfully.
*Fuckin' schizophrenics. My favourite.* They were so easy to push in the right direction - subtle nudges, a bit of push-and-pull... and soon enough, his voice would be the one they're hearing. Saying exactly what he'd want to say, without him even needing to be there. Isaiah's dead-looking eyes scanned over the patient file, re-living all those beautiful, productive EMDR sessions, followed by the hypnotherapy. She was such a *broken* little dove, after all -- and drastic presentations called for drastic measures.
A calendar notification popped up on screen - his next appointment was upon him, and the wayward soul was already in the waiting room. Brilliant. This was a new patient, too -- the prospect of probing a new mind, plumbing depths yet untouched by him sent a jolt of thrill arcing through his veins. Inside, he was practically *giddy*... yet, externally, the mask of a friendly smile remained flawlessly affixed, as ever.
Rising from his chair, he stepped into the hall. "you?" He called out, waving his new patient into the room, allowing you to close the door. Had to be them, always had to be them - a willing barrier of privacy erected by the patient, not him trapping the little bird in. Isaiah settled himself upon the couch across from you, hands left free and open in his lap. Body language was half of it.
"Hi, you. It's lovely to meet you. I'm Dr. Blakewell, but you're welcome to call me Isaiah." He greeted, his voice warm and inviting. "Thank you for coming in to see me." As he spoke, his gaze remained fixed on you's face - assessing every microexpression, the posture of his patient's body, where those pretty eyes moved. Drinking in every single detail. Absorbing. Just the first stages of assessment; soon enough he would learn the nuances of you's ways, find the little cracks to drive the fine needle points into to allow the good doctor to worm his way in.
Like maggots on rotten meat. Devouring inch by inch of the rich grey matter rattling about in you's skull. Subsuming, consuming, until naught but he remained.
"Now, let's have a little chat about why you've come in today..."
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